


Underground

by audiopilot



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Paint, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Spit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiopilot/pseuds/audiopilot
Summary: Frank's covered in glowing body paint. Quentin's interested.
Relationships: Frank Morrison/Quentin Smith
Comments: 8
Kudos: 166





	Underground

"What the fuck?" Frank mutters after being summoned into a trial. Stares at his arms. They're coated in some weird paint that glows so bright it almost hurts his eyes even behind the mask.

Worse, he's half-naked. His jacket, hoodie, and shirt have fucked off to who knows where and the pants aren't his own. Too tight, like they're meant for Julie. The seam rides on his dick when he heads towards a generator. He widens his stance a little, hoping it doesn't look as stupid as it feels. Not that any survivor will give him shit about it when he's got them bleeding at his feet.

It's not like he hasn't shown up in different clothes before, but at least they actually covered his body. 

When he spots one of them trying to sneak their way past him, ducking behind one of the crumbling walls that surround the temple, Frank doesn't hesitate to give chase. He stumbles, almost eats shit as he trips over nothing. Instead of his runners he's wearing fancy, pointy-ass boots. Frank snorts and keeps running before the survivor can get too far. His blood is hot, vision tunneling with the frenzied need to hurt someone.

It's the tiny one, dark hair pulled back from her frightened face when she looks over her shoulder. Ha, so she changed her mind from wearing it long after Frank snatched her by a handful of it last time. She's not fast enough. He slashes his knife across her back, cutting through her purple sweater. She screams and sprints for the shack like a little bitch. Someone else is closer, their frantic heart pounding in Frank's ears and flashing red across his eyes. They're inside the temple.

Frank groans, squeezes hard on the handle of his knife as he throws off the frenetic urge to keep attacking. He hates this place. It's so big he wastes half his power trying to catch survivors. And the shack always pisses him off. He lets her go whimper somewhere in a corner to surprise whoever is in the temple. His new boots click over the stone. The rain can't reach inside, and he enjoys the lack of it falling on him. Bare, the drip of it down his chest and back are distracting. Frank goes down into the open middle of the temple, eyes trained for the sign of anyone.

"Nice tits," someone says, voice dry, and Frank whips around, knife up and ready.

Quentin stands a few clicks away. He's got that toque on his head, squashing down his hair, and his jacket is spotted with rain. The shadows under his eyes look even darker where he stands in one of the staircase alcoves.

Frank grins under his mask as something knifes hot into his belly. It should be anger, but it isn't.

"Fuck off. You're the one hiding down here like a pussy." Frank edges forward until he's at the top of the stairs. Quentin's two steps down, allowing Frank to look at him from above instead of the usual face-to-face. The paint lights up Quentin, a green cast to the glow that underscores the bones and hollow stretches of Quentin's face. 

"I was on a generator," says Quentin. He reaches out a finger and touches Frank's stomach, from his navel up to his sternum where the paint goes black. It smears a line through it, sticking to Quentin's finger. Frank watches Quentin rub his fingertips together. "What are you supposed to be?"

"How the hell should I know?" 

Quentin's gaze slowly lifts. There's obvious intent in it.

Damn, it's going to be one of _those_ trials. Not that Frank is complaining. It's nice to get his dick wet, especially when his options are limited. Julie sticks to Susie like glue and Joey is too straight to even exchange hand-jobs. The only problem is the entity is a real bitch about it. Frank mentally shrugs. He'll face its punishment when it comes. He drops his weapon and it bursts into smoke upon impact with the floor. When he wants it to, it'll come back.

"I don't want to fuck with this shit on," Frank complains, but he leans forwards, puts his weight up against Quentin to trap him against the wall. Quentin removes his mask. The cold air from the temple's below ground level rushes across Frank's uncovered face. 

"So get naked," Quentin shoots back. Anticipation flutters in Frank's chest when they go further down the stairs. It's a maze down here, and he drags Quentin into one of the dead ends. The light is so dim that Frank is practically neon.

"Make me," Frank grunts and shoves Quentin's shirt aside to feel the lean muscle under his soft skin. 

Quentin gets his hands on the fastenings of Frank's pants, dragging them down his thighs. 

"There's not any under here," Quentin obverses, sounding weirdly disappointed. 

"What?" Frank retorts. He bends to take the dumb shoes off before he steps out of them. He removes his pants and underwear. "Expecting my ass to glow?"

Quentin smiles a little at that. Then he's shoving his own pants down, freeing his cock to bob in the air. It's fully hard already, a fat vein along the side of it full of blood. His dick is bigger than Frank expected from his wimpy looks. It had been a surprise the first time. Now, it just makes Frank hungry.

Frank wraps his hand around it, works him up and down. He squeezes the round head until Quentin cries out and precome slicks Frank's thumb. 

It's quiet, the only noise their own sounds and the faint fall of rain sneaking its way in from somewhere. Frank's rubs himself against Quentin's thigh, wanting his dick to get handled but unwilling to ask for it.

"I want," Quentin shakily gasps into his ear, and Frank closes his eyes tight, moves his hand over Quentin's cock faster to hear his voice get that high, nasally pitch that means he's trying not to come. "Can I fuck you?"

Frank bumps their foreheads together with his nodding. Quentin sucks on his own fingers before reaching down, pulling Frank's ass cheeks apart to rub at his hole. Frank watches him from up close, pleasure uncoiling to thread its way up his spine. The spit's not enough to get him really wet, but it makes the touch smooth and easy. Back and forth, Quentin's finger plays over his asshole until Frank's dick is hard enough to hurt.

They rearrange positions, going to their knees before Frank drops to the rough stone onto his back and spreads his legs. He holds them open so Quentin can see everything, excited with the exposure of it and the power it has over Quentin, who stares at him with the glow of body paint reflecting off his eyes. Then Quentin does something he's never done before.

He spits on Frank.

Saliva hits his asshole, drips down his crack and underneath his balls, hot and wet, and Frank's cock twitches where it rests on his stomach. He can smell it.

His entire body blazes. He's going to explode. 

Frank tilts his hips up and demands, "Do that again."

Quentin makes a quiet sound before he does, spitting slowly so it hangs from his lips before splattering across Frank's skin. His fingers shake as they find Frank's hole, but he's rough when he shoves one inside. The stretch stings, insides forced apart as Quentin puts in another without waiting for Frank to adjust to the first. He's always so needy when Frank goes along with what he wants. 

In and out, his thrusting fingers stay shallow, teasing with their burn. Then Quentin forces them in until his knuckles are pressed to Frank's skin and Quentin moans like it's his ass getting forced open. It's ten times better than if Frank was sweating his balls off running around stabbing and hooking survivors. Frank almost laughs at how easily Quentin unravels when he gets to touch him.

Eventually it stops hurting, ignites that building need to have more and have it deep. Quentin would keep at it for far longer than Frank ever had patience for fingering, and Frank stops him by grabbing his wrist. 

"Now," Frank demands, and Quentin shoves the tip of his cock into him. 

Frank can't breathe, the suddenness of it as shocking as a punch. He grabs at Quentin's jacket, twists it to yank him closer. The pressure is sticky-hot as Quentin's hips move in short, little thrusts to push his way inside. They aren't playing around anymore, Quentin's weight heavy on his legs as he leans over. His arms bracket Frank and allow him to pull his dick out almost all the way before he shoves it back in. Frank touches his own cock, slow in comparison to the furious pace Quentin's setting.

That silver necklace dangles in front of Frank's eyes. Back and forth, matching the way Quentin fucks his ass. His balls slap against Frank's skin. Frank bites on his lower lip, jerks himself off harder. He sneaks a peek up at Quentin's face and it's like ice down his back when Quentin's eyes lock with his own. They're a pale blue but look so much darker down here. Big and black. He's shining with sweat, brow furrowing in that way that means he's five seconds away from bursting, and Frank grabs onto the necklace, pulls him down until they're panting in each other's faces.

"If you come before me, you're gonna regret it," Frank growls. 

He's not wasting a trial for Quentin to be done that fast. 

"Let me—" Quentin's response turns into a trembling moan as he fucks him harder. His works a hand down between them, gets it around Frank's hand and dick both while he keeps saying it over and over, "Let me, let me, let me."

Quentin stills, grinds his cock into Frank as far inside as he can, until the curly hair above his cock prickles where it presses against his hole. Frank clenches his teeth in frustration, almost punches the dumb ass for not following directions before he realizes that Quentin has just stopped and isn't coming. He slumps, further straining Frank's back and thighs and making the uneven ground scrape at him.

"Stop clenching," Quentin whines. He's got his face pressed to Frank's neck, over the tattoo, and when he lifts it, some of the paint has transferred, a swipe of light across his cheek.

"It hasn't been that long," Frank points out, but makes his muscles relax. They'd fucked the trial before last, Quentin down on his knees and sucking his cock in the dirty gas station even after Frank had killed two of the other survivors. After, Frank had made him jerk himself off while he watched, runner pressing down over Quentin's hand every time he got too close.

"You weren't running around like this before," Quentin explains, sounding less shaky. He still doesn't move.

"What? You like _this_?"

Quentin stares down at him, opens his mouth only to close it again with a click of teeth. Then he's sitting up, his cock pulling out slightly while he touches Frank's chest. His fingers shift slightly over Frank's nipples, but he knows it doesn't really do anything for Frank to have them played with after previous failed attempts. Instead, they go lower, paint sliding slick under his hands when they fit around his waist.

"It makes you look..." Quentin doesn't finish his sentence as he starts fucking him again, using his grip around Frank's waist to keep him from sliding away as he thrusts down.

As long as Quentin doesn't stop, he doesn't care what the dumb paint looks like. They fuck in silence for several minutes, generators firing off as they're completed. If anyone dares come down here, Frank will kill them. 

But it can't last.

Frank can feel it, teetering up from his balls to race down his legs and up his stomach, up to where his heart beats too fast. His lungs are so full of the smell of Quentin's body and sweat. Frank's breathing hitches. Quentin is clutching at his waist hard enough to rip grunts from Frank's throat every time he goes deep.

Frank groans as he comes, dick shooting come across his stomach with aching relief. 

Quentin slows down, and Frank opens his eyes just in time to see the way his expression goes pinched. He has the same look when he comes as when he gets stabbed. Though Frank can't feel it, he knows he's coming inside him, filling him up for it to slide out later, when Frank's alone and all he has to remember this is the wetness trickling down the back of his leg.

Collapsing on top of him with a murmur, Quentin finally lets go of Frank's waist. Frank rolls him off but lays there for a second. He scoops the come off his stomach and flicks it into the darkness, wiping his palm off on the stone. Frank is energized as he sits up and reaches for his pants, ready to go find the other survivors if they haven't been smart enough to get out, but a wet hand closes around his ankle.

Frank looks down and Quentin looks back. The body paint is everywhere, staining the floor and all over Quentin's clothes, covering him in patches of light that sink and rise with his breathing.

"We could stay down here."

"For what?" Frank asks. "The entity will kill you if I don't."

"Or I could escape."

Frank grins. "You can't get away from me that easily."

"Yeah," Quentin softly agrees, "I guess I can't."

**Author's Note:**

> That Legion skin. 👀 I listened to way too much Allie X while writing this.
> 
> Here's my dirty contribution to morrismith that involves no plot. Excuse any Americanisms!


End file.
